


sending postcards from a plane-crash (wish you were here)

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: The Sound of Music - Rodgers/Hammerstein/Lindsay & Crouse
Genre: 2010 Eyjafjallajökull Eruptions, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Iceland, Postcards, Volcano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then she's gone, and he's left standing and staring at the place where she was."/or Maria and Georg are pushed together by her smile, his sense of duty and a bored volcano. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. everything i wish for

**Author's Note:**

> Another wild AU that is also posted over on ff.net.Thank you to Proboards people for their amazingness, and I officially blame studying volcanic eruptions in Geography for this one. Title is a Fall-Out Boy song of the same name.
> 
> valeria - this one is for you :)

_Reykjavik to Vienna International, 1822 miles, 3 hours and 57 minutes._

Everything happens so fast that Maria doesn’t really have time to process it all. One minute she’s waiting around at the fancy coffee shop as they swirl glacier-white thick cream on top of her coffee and the next, all the boards in the departures lounge have turned red. Cancelled, cancelled, cancelled, and cancelled. “You’ve got be kidding me,” she mutters to herself, coffee completely forgotten as she scrambles for the phone in her jacket pocket.

“Hazards of Iceland,” a voice says from beside her in German. She turns and almost immediately wishes she hadn’t. He raises an eyebrow at her and gives her a small smile, and she feels as though the floor has opened beneath her feet and her stomach has dropped right through it. Seriously, though, what are the chances?

“You have no idea how lovely it is to find someone else who speaks German,” she tells him. “Do you know why? Is it a storm or something?”

“A volcano,” he says, shoving his hands nonchalantly into his pockets as though it’s completely normal for a _war hero_ to be standing around with an awkward young theology student and not off with a bevy of guards and admirers and staff ready to heed his every command. Maria shifts from foot to foot.

“Volcano? Are we safe?”

It’s an idiotic question, and she knows it the second it comes out of her mouth, and she feels the blush burning on her cheeks. He gives her that smile again, and nods. “We’ll be fine.”

“Ah okay, good. Dying on my first solo trip would not be fun – even if it was from something as exciting as a lava flow.”

“Would you call a lava flow exciting?”

“Well, we studied them in school and they’re so pretty, especially at night. I’m pleased that there aren’t any in Austria, though, that would be scary if you had to live with volcanoes. I’m Maria, by the way.”

“Georg.” He holds out a hand, and she almost drops her coffee as she tries to sort out her bags, pushing them up her arms. He’s almost laughing by the time they eventually get around to shaking. His hand is calloused and warm and comfortingly big around her thin little-girl fingers and after a few seconds she doesn’t want to let go. “Shall we find a seat? I feel we’ll be here for quite a while.”

*

When travelling by air, he finds, it’s far too easy for boredom and lethargy to sneak up behind you and spin silken webs so tight that it’s difficult to ever escape. It never helps that airports and airplanes are all the same no matter where you are in the world – check-in, security, hanging around in a faceless lounge with the faceless multitudes thronging around you. In all honesty, he’s surprised that he even noticed her. He tells himself it was the cursing in his mother tongue rather than the way the sunlight spilled from her smile.

“So, what’s a theology student doing in Iceland?”

She looks at him, twisting her coffee cup around in her hands. He tries to ignore the little bit of froth on her upper lip, and the way he wants to kiss it away. She can’t be any more than twenty. It wouldn’t be right.

“Just exploring. I’m going to be a nun, but the Reverend Mother wanted me to see the world before I committed.”

“A nun? Any particular reason why?”

“I went to school in the convent that I’m going to join and, I don’t know.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “They’re the only real family I have, and I guess I don’t want to leave.”

It wouldn’t be fair to announce to this girl that he’s known all of half an hour that he thinks she’s too gorgeous to be a nun. Surely they’re all old fuddy-duddies – he admires their devotion to God – but he can’t see this bright young thing with her supernova smile cloistered in an abbey for the rest of her life.

“Which convent school did you go to?”

“The one at Nonnberg Abbey, in Salzburg.”

 _What are the chances of that?_ He thinks. She looks at him quizzically and he almost laughs. Of course he managed to say it out loud. That was clever. “My children and I live near Salzburg.”

“Cool!” she enthuses. “What a small world we live in.”

“Indeed.”

“How many children do you have?”

He gives her a glance out of the corner of his eye, and then back out at the rapidly darkening sky. “How about we find something to eat and I’ll tell you all about them?”

Her blush is back, and he wishes he could tell her that’s it’s one of the most endearing things he’s ever seen, her blushes and her coltish awkwardness as she leans under the seat to pick up her scruffy bags. It’s one of the most refreshing things to be around a real flesh and hot-blooded girl rather than the beautiful poised ice-women back in the crème of Austrian society. “That sounds wonderful.”

*

She’s not sure how it happens, but they end up sitting at that restaurant for hours, talking about his children (all _seven_ of them, she can’t quite believe it), and the hills around Salzburg and everything else that pops into her brain. His eyes never leave her face all night, and at the end after a sinfully delicious dark chocolate and raspberry mousse, he pockets the bill.

“Aren’t I allowed to contribute?” she asks.

“Nope.” His smile is devilish, and she can’t get the sight of the way his eyes crinkle around the corners out of her head. “My treat, to apologise for the bad manners of Eyjafjallajokull.”

“I suppose we should forgive it,” she says, dazedly. “It hasn’t erupted for nearly two hundred years – it was probably getting a bit bored under all that ice.”

His laugh is surprised, as is the way he looks at her, his eyes trailing across her face for the tenth time this evening. “Shall we?” he asks, picking up her bags before she can even react.

“Seriously, I can…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

She wonders at it as she follows the straight line of his back and shoulders out of the restaurant, trying to keep her eyes from dipping lower. _This is wrong_ , she tries to tell herself. _He must be at least twenty years older than you, he has seven children for Christ’s sake and to top it all off he probably has a beautiful, stately wife waiting back home in Salzburg for him. He’s just being nice because you’re stranded all on your own and you don’t speak English or Icelandic…_

They eventually find a pair of seats that aren’t occupied by other travellers and he immediately goes to find a pair of blankets and pillows from the help desk. She watches from the distance as he leans over to talk to the woman, speaking in what seems to be fluent Icelandic. Now that he’s not there, all obvious and handsome and _man,_ right in front of her, she can admire the way he looks in his suit, the sharp creases of his trousers and the way he smiles again, almost nervously as he approaches with their provisions. As he sits down, she tries to stifle a yawn.

“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll wake you if something happens.”

*

When she wakes, the pillow feels significantly more muscular and less like cardboard than when she’d gone to sleep. It’s also moving, and there’s a warm arm wrapped around her shoulders. She tries to sit up, panic fluttering between her ribs, but he won’t let her.

“Ssh, it’s about six in the morning,” he mutters, his voice groggy with sleep.

“What…”

“You couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t mind. There’s a car coming for us at about eight.”

“Us?”

“Well,” his voice has thickened slightly with awkwardness. “You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I managed to get my old suite at the hotel rebooked for the next week…”

“And what?”

“Would you like to stay with me?”

“Why?”

“I’d feel wrong abandoning you after all of this, alone in a foreign country, God knows how long this disruption is going to last…”

Maria sits up properly and stares at him, forgetting all about the crick in her neck and the pain cramping its way up her legs. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She just stares at him, and then nods. “If you’re sure I wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“My dear, it would be my pleasure.”

*

He’s not one to use unnecessary adjectives, but watching Maria explore the beautiful room at the Hotel Nord is nothing short of adorable. She flits about in her socks, leggings and enormously unflattering grey jumper, exclaiming at the view, the artwork, the minimalist colours, how bouncy the bed is…he tries to stop the inappropriate thoughts that cross his mind at the last one and almost manages. Why did he do this again?

“So where were you staying before?” he asks.

“Oh, this little hostel out near the mountains. It was pretty, but nothing like this.” She comes and sits down a respectable distance away on the edge of the bed. “What are you going to be doing until we can fly again?”

“Probably working.” He watches the way a wisp of her hair falls across her collarbone, how her ink-blue eyes light up and knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“It sounds like you’ve spent your life working. We should have some fun.”

He likes the way she’s skidded into the idea of the two of the spending time with each other with such reckless abandon. Any other woman would be questioning, doubting, wondering whether something was _really sensible_ but obviously not Maria.

“Well, what do you classify as _fun_?” He doesn’t miss the blush that scalds across her cheekbones.

“Sightseeing. Have you been to the Blue Lagoon? Or Thingvellir – that’s really beautiful at this time of year, or even Geysir. You must have seen Geysir.”

He shakes his head. Her mouth pops open in shock. “Seriously? No?”

“No.”

“Well…we could start with that?”

In that moment, he’d agree to catching the moon for her if only to see that smile again.

*

Thingvellir is all hazy shapes in the early morning mist, and there’s no-one around. She drags him around, pointing out this and this and this - _look, Georg, the first Parliament was held here, and oh look, if I stand here I’m on the boundary between the Eurasian and North American plates. If only there was lava._

“I thought you were scared of lava?”

“Nah, it was the only dangerous thing that came out of volcanoes that I could think of.”

They’re standing so close together, now, with the wind ruffling tender fingers through her hair and her nose chapped red, and God help him if she doesn’t do something right now, he’s going to kiss her and break this fragile, new friendship into millions of glittering knife-sharp pieces…

But of course, she’s Maria and doing something in an awkward situation is what she appears to do best. Before he’s even had the chance to finish the thought of what she’d feel like in his arms, she’s started to sing…”High on the hills was a lonely goatherd, lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo…”

“What even is that?” he interrupts.

“A song my mother used to sing to me,” she grins. “We acted it out with finger puppets.”

“Your voice is beautiful,” he shakes his head. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Thank you.” Her voice is as warm as hot chocolate, and she gives him one of her looks that makes him want to melt. This is ridiculous – he’s a decorated war hero from the Gulf, he jets around the world making money as a speaker at conferences and talks, he’s seen things most people wouldn’t dream of, and she’s bringing him to his knees so easily that it frightens him. “Lots of things, I’ll have you know. Do you sing?”

“I used to,” he says. She doesn’t say anything. “I…my wife died. The music stopped, after that.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is tender, and he wants to snap, the way he used to at all sympathy, at all mention of how Agathe was with God, how he was being so _strong,_ so _brave._ If he’d been strong and brave, he could have saved her. If he’s strong and brave, he wouldn’t be trying to forget.

“It’s in the past,” he says tightly. She reaches out to squeeze his hand, and he wants to hang onto her so badly. He knows he can’t.

*

The week is over before it’s even started and the airspace is clear. He drives her to the airport in a rental car, helping her with her bags and wondering at how everything’s going to be different when she’s gone. How has it only been seven days?

“Well, good luck with everything…” he says, cursing at how stilted it sounds.

“Thank you. I hope America goes well. Send me a postcard.”

“Of course.”

They stand and look at each other for a few moments. He can see the thoughts flickering across the surface of her eyes; he makes his decision and leans down to kiss her cheek. “Have a safe flight, Maria.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, her hand flying up to touch the spot and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Then she’s gone, and he’s left standing and staring at the place where she was.


	2. night alone in the city

Reykjavik to JFK, 2590 miles, 5 hours and 24 minutes.

_*_

_Dear Maria,_

_Found this on the way to the hotel in New York – hope you like it. You said that one day you’d love to see the City that Never Sleeps but right now part of me wants it to just shut up. It won’t though – I’ve been here enough to know that! I’m about to try and sleep off my jetlag. Nothing much interesting going on._

_Hope you’re well and that you’ve arrived back to the convent safely._

_Georg._

*

_Dear Georg,_

_I thought I should reciprocate with a postcard even though you’ve obviously seen the hills around Salzburg plenty of times with your own eyes. I’m pleased you arrived safely, and I’m so jealous – even though you sound fed-up, I can imagine how amazing it is – the lights, the constant noise – is everything the way it is in the movies?_

_I am well thank you. Enjoy New York for me._

_Maria._

*

_Dear Maria,_

_Depends what you define as ‘in the movies.’ It’s just another city, really, noisy, smelly, and placeless. I’m in a jazz club at the moment trying to ignore the screeching from the stage – honestly, I could be anywhere. Speaking of place…if you could go anywhere where would it be?_

_Yours_

_Georg._

_*_

_Dear Georg,_

_I have absolutely no idea. I want to see the world, but I think I’d adore going back to Iceland. I’d climb Eyjafjallajokull and Katla, obviously when they weren’t erupting, and trawl around Reykjavik a bit more. It’s just the most beautiful country, don’t you think? Where’s the best place you’ve ever been to?_

_In other news, I managed to completely miss Mass the other day – I was up in the hills taking pictures and singing and I completely lost track of the time – the Mistress of Postulants is less than impressed when I try to explain that I’m sure God loves his children to worship him outside church as well as in!_

_Maria_

_*_

_Dear Maria,_

_Are you sure you’re quite cut out for being a nun? Just because you’re devoted to God doesn’t mean you have to shut yourself away in an abbey for the rest of your life. When I think of you, it’s always outside in the open rather than shut away._

_I’d never been out of Reykjavik until you dragged me, but I agree, it is very beautiful. I’m not sure if I ever thanked you properly for making me leave the hotel. As to places…well, in the war, the landscape was very striking. The sunsets were glorious, light flooding over a sea of sand – I always used to watch them at night before we headed back into base. Sometimes I wish I’d taken pictures of them, but it’s all in the past now and that’s where it needs to stay._

_I’m flying out to LA tomorrow, and I’ve enclosed the address of my new hotel._

_Yours_

_Georg._

_*_

JFK to LAX, 2472 miles, 5 hours and 11 minutes.

*

_Dear Georg,_

_I don’t know. As you know, they’re my only family and well…if I don’t become a nun what on earth else could I do? Sister Berthe (that’s the Mistress of Postulants who doesn’t like me very much) talks about how I’d make a lovely teacher or midwife or something, but the thought doesn’t really fill me with joy like a vocation ought to. I just feel a little bit like I’m floating through life not really knowing what to do with myself. Sorry to burden you with all of this – it’s the first time I’ve ever really told someone all of these things, the little worries that you never ever notice until it’s far too late._

_You’ve never talked about your time in the war, and I completely respect that but if you ever need a listening ear, I’m right here. You know, if you want to. You don’t have to if you don’t._

_Yours_

_Maria._

_*_

Sometimes she lies awake in her little cell at night and thinks about what it would’ve been like that day at the airport, to kiss him properly, soft and sweet and gentle. How his hands would have felt around her waist, and his hair against her skin. Under her covers, she drowns in the thoughts and lets her fingers wander and knows how wrong it is.

She cant’t bring herself to care, anymore.

*

_Dear Maria,_

_You’re right, like you always are. What is it with the women in my life? I just…it weighs on me, even after all these years, even though all I did was do my job. Why me? Why am I a hero when other men did things just as brave and all they got for their efforts were white graves under a scorching sun?_

_I’m better than I used to be. I’ll tell you that now. The year or so after Agathe’s death was the worst – my nightmares of blood and screams and explosions had me up and drinking until the early hours in an effort to erase it from my brain, but it didn’t work. Let me tell you this now, alcohol never does. Look at me, I’m turning into a sentimental old fool._

_As to what you can do – I’ve just had an email of resignation from my children’s nanny – something about glue on a toothbrush. Would it be at all possible for you to stay with them whilst I finish this tour? I’ve only got three more weeks and then I’ll be home. Also, never be scared about telling me things – you’ve helped me more than you can know in the last month, and I’m damned if I’m not going to give you something in return._

_Yours._

_Georg._

*

_Dear Georg,_

_I’ve asked the Reverend Mother, and she thinks it should be alright. I’m going up tomorrow morning and I can stay however long you need me to. I’ll be honest, I’m a little bit nervous but I know I can muster up enough confidence to deal with seven children especially since I’m sure you’re much scarier and I stayed in a hotel room with you for a week!_

_It’s no wonder you can’t forget – I have the deepest admiration for people who go to war and come back at all sane. I couldn’t imagine it and I don’t think I want to. I never understand why people think they have to fight over everything and kill everyone and cause so much pain and hurt and suffering. I know I’m naïve, but it doesn’t make much sense. Hope LA isn’t too awful._

_Yours._

_Maria._

_P.S. I don’t think you’re a sentimental old fool ;)_

_*_

_Dear Maria,_

_Was that a winky-face? You haven’t even met my children yet and they’re rubbing off on you. They’re completely obsessed with…what are they called…smileys? It’s ridiculous. I know you’re probably there already, but remember – bedtime is to be strictly observed, I expect them to do all their holiday homework and go for lots of walks. Don’t let them be on their devices all day – I don’t know why I ever let their Uncle Max pester me into buying those for them._

_Well, I’m pleased you don’t find me scary. It’s almost as annoying as the complete veteran obsession they have over here – what do I need to do to get them to leave me alone? LA is so strange – I ended up talking to this Austrian baroness whose family migrated over here before WW2 and it was all juice cleanses and good energy and plastic surgery – I just don’t understand these people. It’s ridiculous._

_Don’t let the children bully you – tell them I’ll be cross with them if they do._

_Yours._

_Georg._

_*_

“Hello?”

“Georg.” Maria’s voice is significantly cooler than the tone of her last letter, and Georg immediately tries to think back to what he’d written, hoping he hadn’t crossed any lines.

“What’s the matter? It’s nearly five in the morning and I’m only halfway through my whiskey…”

“Oh god, sorry, I completely forgot about time zones!” There’s some sniggering in the back of the line and he feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat.

“It’s alright. Sleep hasn’t really been happening lately.”

“Oh no, are you alright?”

“Just a certain time of year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I get through it every year.”

“Alright.”

“So…any particular reason you are phoning me at such a late hour?”

“Well, I’m a little bit annoyed with you.”

“Only a little bit?”

“Very, actually. But it can wait, if you’ve had a bad night.”

“Maria, I’m drunk. I don’t quite care either way.”

“Fine.” She seems a bit stung, and regret flashes through his head for a brief second. “I’m cross with you because of the children.”

“What have they done?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all! Look, tell me this, when did you last see them?”

“Three months ago, I suppose?”

“Exactly!”

“What, exactly?”

“They miss you so much! There’s a reason they put glue on their last governesses toothbrush and run wild…Marta and Gretl are so scared of thunderstorms and you’ve missed having to threaten Liesl’s first boyfriend and all Friedrich and Kurt want are to be more like you but you’re never ever here!”

“Maria, this is my _job_! What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Quit it or something or take a break, I don’t know. You’re perfectly rich enough not to work for a while but you’re getting very close to never being able to mend things with your kids and I don’t want to see that happening.”

“Maria, I don’t need this right now.”

“Do you think your wife would’ve wanted you to do this?”

Pained, awful silence falls across the phone line and he considers throwing the whiskey bottle at the wall. How dare she? How dare she bring up Agathe when she knows absolutely nothing of the pain he’s been through, of how he had to give up his beautiful, lively wife into the grasping arms of bone and dust and death without a fight because what fight is there to be had against terminal cancer?

“Don’t,” he says shortly, and hangs up.

The sound of glass shattering and sobbing fills the room, and blood and whiskey splatter down the wall like the remains of a siege.

*

In the morning he has a text. _I’m not sorry. You have to try._


	3. ships go down with more grace than you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments! They really mean the world to me :) xxx

_LAX to Vienna International, 6130 miles, 12 hours and 6 minutes._

When he walks through the door, there’s something different about the air. It’s lighter, somehow, buoyant, rising – so different from the heaviness he fled from. There’s also no sign of the children. When he left, it wouldn’t be unusual for Liesl to be sitting on the couch on her phone, texting away, and for the little ones to be playing My Sims Kingdom or whatever rubbish the gaming industry is trying to pass off as entertainment these days but now they’re nowhere to be seen.

His nerves feel like frayed cables, sparking at the ends. _It’s going to be alright,_ he reminds himself. _Just smile and hug them and give them the presents and act like nothing’s ever been any different to how it was before Agathe. It’ll be fine._

“DAD!” There’s a screech then, from the hallway, and suddenly seven dripping, beaming bodies are colliding with his legs, flinging arms around him and clinging to his suit like they’re never going to let him go. It overwhelms him, all of sudden, the feel of them, the love that crashes over his head like a tsunami, and he thinks that if drowning feels this good, he never wants to breathe again.

“Hello,” he says, scooping Gretl into his arms and reaching out to touch each of them, a brush of Marta’s hair, a stroke of Liesl’s cheek, a hand on Friedrich’s shoulder. “I missed you all.”

“You did?” Liesl asks.

“Yes. Very much so.”

Their smiles are the dawning of a new day.                         

*

He doesn’t know how long he stands there in the hallway with them, but when he looks up, Maria is in the doorway, the soft lines of her body silhouetted against the diamond light spilling from the windows in sharp shards. Her smile is so beautiful that it takes his breath away.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

The children have fallen silent, and he realises belatedly that he doesn’t want to have this conversation here, in front of them, even though he’s aching to step forward and take Maria into his arms and kiss her senseless right there and then. “You did. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay.”

“Dad, did you really meet Maria because of a volcano?” Marta prods at his side.

“Yes, I did darling. How about we sit in the drawing room and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to. I can give you your presents as well.”

“Presents!” Gretl shrieks and everyone laughs.

*

It’s after dinner before he gets the chance to be alone with her. He’s sitting in his study trying desperately to concentrate on the email he’s sending out to his agent about taking a very long and well deserved and _maybepossiblyeven_ permanent break when the knock comes.

“Come in,” he calls, shutting down the program and turning in his chair. It’s Maria. He feels his heart pound. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she says, twisting her hands together. He attempts to ignore the way her new-looking dress clings to the curve of her waist, the way the colour makes her eyes shift like an ocean. “I feel like I’ve barely been able to talk to you all day. Did you have a good flight?”

“It was what it was. Oh, I almost forgot. This is for you.”

He reaches over to the beautifully packages box that’s been burning a hole in his suitcase ever since he came out of Cartier at Heathrow, and hands it to her. Surprise dashes across her face, and she bites her bottom lip. He forces himself to look away before he does something stupid.

“You didn’t have to get me anything!”

“I wanted to. You can open it, if you want.”

He watches her face as she carefully tears off the tissue and opens the box. A hand flies to her mouth. He feels the blood rushing through his veins.

“Georg…” her voice is awed. “This…wow…I can’t accept it, I’ve really done nothing to…”

“Don’t even go there. You’ve helped me rebuild my relationship with my children. That is absolutely priceless – there’s no way I’ll be able to thank you enough for it.”

“But this…this is so beautiful…is that an actual sapphire? This is just…I think I’m in shock.”

He laughs, and stands. “Would you like help putting it on?”

“Please.”

He brushes her golden hair off her neck, and carefully does the clasp with shaking fingers. When it’s done, she turns and wraps her arms tightly around him, resting her head against his shoulder. He hovers for a second, unsure, before gently placing his hands against her back and holding her to him. He can feel her heartbeat, feel something swelling inside him, filling him up with bubbles and butterflies, and when she pulls away slightly to look at him, he leans down and kisses her.

There are no words. It’s as perfect as he’d imagined.

*

She sits on his lap with the weight of the sapphire sparkling at the hollow of her throat and traces every line of his face, committing it to memory. She just can’t believe it. This is like a movie, a play, a book, this shouldn’t be reality, it really shouldn’t, but somehow it is and he’s sitting there right in front of her with his warm hands on her waist and his wry half-smile and beautiful eyes and she feels as though fate has conspired to make her the happiest woman alive. Surely this is unfair. Surely one person isn’t supposed to be this blessed.

“When did you know?” he asks, tracing one finger along her collarbone.

“Thingvellir,” she says, laughing. “When I was dragging you around the entire park in the rain. Or when we said goodbye at the airport. It’s so cliché but I think it’s when. No, I don’t know.”

“You know, I almost kissed you that day in Thingvellir.”

“Really?”

“Really, but then you ruined the moment when you started yodelling.”

Her laugh is like the sunshine. “Oh yes, I remember. And what about you? When did it happen for you?”

“Oh the first day in the airport, definitely.”

“What are we like? We could’ve saved ourselves so much effort.”

He kisses her neck, and she shivers. “I don’t think so. I think it would’ve taken a while.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, shall we just be thankful that it did happen?”

“Yes, yes. Just shut up and kiss me.”

*

_A year later_

“Look, darlings, that’s the volcano that set Dad and I up!”

“It’s very quiet.”

“Of course it’s quiet, you muppet, it’s dormant again.”

“How do you pronounce it again Mum?”

“Eyjafjallajokull.”

“What?”

“Okay, okay, off you go. Mum and I want some time alone.”

“Don’ fall off any cliffs!”

“We won’t!”

Maria looks fondly after them as the children go scampering off in the direction of the visitor centre, and then up at the serene, snow-capped mountain towering majestically above them. “We certainly have a lot to thank you for, old chap.”

Georg laughs, and pulls her in for a kiss, breathing in the smell of cold and ice and _her_. “That we do.”

**.The End.**


End file.
